


Dionysos in the Underworld

by Grondfic



Category: Bacchae - Euripides
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 12:48:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5540639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grondfic/pseuds/Grondfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Hades a nameless soul wanders in a misty landscape; whilst elsewhere Dionysos pays a visit to the Lady, seeking a favour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dionysos in the Underworld

**Author's Note:**

> 1) This piece is specific to the version of Euripides’ _Bacchae_ which was played at the Almeida Theatre in September 2015 and titled _Bakkhai_. The sparkling new translation by Anne Carson can be obtained here (and it’s worth it!) –  
>  http://www.amazon.co.uk/Bakkhai-Oberon-Classics-Anne-Carson/dp/1783199156/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1451117846&sr=1-1&keywords=bakkhai
> 
> It starred Ben Whishaw as Dionysos and Bertie Carvel as Pentheus; and the chemistry was palpable. Here are a couple of pic links, just to give the flavour of the piece:
> 
> https://www.thestage.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2015/07/Ben-Whishaw-and-Bertie-Carvel-in-Bakkhai.-Almeida-Theatre.-Credit-Marc-Brenner.gif
> 
> http://eqview.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/09/BakkhaiA.jpg
> 
> 2) In addition, I have referenced Aristophanes’ _Frogs_ , which also stars Dionysos (but in a VERY different context); and which, crucial to this plotline, takes place mainly in the Underworld. 
> 
> 3) All words and phrases _in Italic_ are quotes from Carson’s _Bakkhai_ , or _Frogs_ (translated by G. Theodorides for Poetry in translation - http://www.poetryintranslation.com/PITBR/Greek/Frogs.htm ). It should be obvious which is which!
> 
> 4) Any dialogue appearing between two crosses (++as so++), denotes thoughts or mind-to-mind communication.
> 
> 5) Carson’s translation leaves Dionysos’ god-status a bit murky. He refers to himself as _daimon_ , but the whole plotline turns on recognition of his godhood. In addition he appears in human guise as his own priest. I’ve made use of all three of these statuses, with the implication that he is an emergent deity, still in the process of perfecting himself.

A soul wanders through a landscape of infinite greys; a landscape leached and bleached of any of the colours of earth. It is bewildered, having no sense of Self; knowing only that this locale is composed of unhappiness – a place intrinsically punitive.

There are few visual reference-points here. A smudge of treeline; a low-lying swathe of cloudlike meads dotted with pallid iris, waxen kingcup, pearly cardamine. A glissade of sluggishly-swirling water slinks noiselessly through these meadows, drawing the eye; supplying minimal perspective and dimension. 

The soul is aware, distantly, that it is in discomfort. Its phantom limbs seem loose, like a puppet unstrung and then subsequently re-wired. Its head, which it tosses compulsively (some old habit from a cast-off life perhaps?) feels unsafe on its neck, as if perhaps prone to flying free when movement is over-enthused or spasmodic.

**

The Lord Hades holds sway here with bleak absoluteness (regardless of any Rhadamanthine judgements going on elsewhere). He evinces no interest in the multiplicity of souls constrained beneath His sway. He simply Is. He and the Underworld are co-terminous.

She, on the other hand, will sometimes interact. She represents an anomalous duality within this indissoluble realm, for She knows the light. She knows the Above as well as the Below; and She knows with complete exactitude, how some insignificant small act, undertaken instinctively, can lead to an inescapable swerve in one’s destiny.

“Then, Lady,” says the daimon insinuatingly, “You can appreciate my own special brand of duality.”

++You mistake yourself, Bringer-of-Ecstasy, if you think yourself merely that. Yours is a fluid plurality that cannot be demarcated. You defy all categories, and are thus the divine paradox. This you know quite well, and in feigning simple duality you belittle yourself++

“Alas that You should think so; for I value Your opinion above all else, as you may know. And yet, and yet … You said nothing disparaging when I shat myself on a previous visit here. Or hasn’t that happened yet? My grasp of Time is sometimes slippery.”

++As I say – you defy all categories. Why are you here on this occasion?++

“I’m – shall we say visiting? - a soul.”

++Always you come here seeking souls; and sometimes plot to abduct them. The Lord granted your request (gadfly that you are) when the soul in question belonged to your mother. It was politics, you understand – a favour to Olympus.++

The daimon offers a blinding smile by way of beguilement.

“It was politics for me too,” he says, “I came – if My Lady recalls – leading a soul to Your halls. I personally handed it aboard the ferry, paid two obols to Charon on my own account in order to travel every step with it; and tendered it direct to Your Lord, rather than pissing around with old Rhadamanthos.”

++Surely you are not claiming that this soul was offered in exchange for your mother? What benefit would there be to My Lord in that, seeing all souls accrue to Him?++

The daimon’s smile becomes reminiscent, and feral.

“There was a measure of connection between the two events,” he admits, “but it was not – as You so wisely surmise – a matter of exchange. That soul – in its tattered Chanel dress and its even more tattered limbs – was sent here personally by me. It had a lesson to learn, namely that Dionysos, son of Zeus, _is a god_ ; and that Semele his mother is so favoured by her immortal Lover, that she too will come to share the bliss of High Olympus…

“And so -“ Dionysos sinks to the ground at Her feet, taking Her hands in his, caressingly, as he delineates the scene, “and so, as Pentheus awaits entry at Your portal he sees – before Lethe takes all memory, all continuity, from him – his despised Aunt, my blessed mother, stepping forth on her way to beatification. It was,” he concludes with the innocent delight of a child, “a fun, fun instant; one of the best, of my contriving!”

++As I recall, My Lord sent the soul, at your request, direct to that place expressly reserved for those mortals who have set themselves against the gods. In return you offered to deal yourself with the specifics of its chastisement – to exact your own retribution. Is that why you have again braved Acheron and the three-headed Gate-keeper?++

“Ah Lady, You know me all too well. This time I have no desire to remove the soul. I have left it alone an aeon or two, to grow accustomed. Now is the time to – shall we say? - begin the corrective process. So – if you would be so good as to direct me to the soul’s whereabouts, I need no longer trouble You, nor Your Lord.”

The Lady raises one pallid lily-hand to remove the veiling that hides her countenance. The two just-becoming-deities gaze at one another, and the Lady’s black-crimson lips part. Then She speaks, using, this time, Her actual voice of rust and gravel; of frog and magpie-croak.

“I will find him for you, Bringer of Ecstasy. But first – one small suggestion. This is a place of Judgement, without favour or pity. I believe I identified you as the divine paradox. Then what bigger paradox than to bring to your – shall we say victim? - a measure of subversive mercy in this merciless realm?”

Dionysos bites his lip - a perfect simulacrum of indecision.

“A possibility, certainly,” he concedes, “A distinct possibility. But then … I’m Me. Expect the unexpected! Mercy in mercilessness? Or possibly just same-old-same-old? Who knows?”

His innocent tantalising eyes are snared by the obsidian hardness of Her gaze - caught and held in suspended mid-impishness - until into his tranced awareness steals again the birdlike trill of Her voiceless communication –

++Follow Lethe and Mnemosyne  
To the Fields of Punishment –  
That place reserved for souls  
Who in their lives displeased the gods.

You’ll recognise the site  
spun from his Lethe-stolen wits;  
and by his scent – commingling  
_all the green there is_  
with the black gore  
that bathed his mother’s arms and clothes  
and tangled in her hair.  
Remember too  
that Lethe water grants amnesia;  
but from that fount -  
Mnemosyne  
(named for the Mother of The Nine)  
the flow of Memory revives…..++

**

The cool water is soothing. Its pure trickle at the back of the throat assuages the tearing agonies in the limbs, and the precarious balancing act centred on the neck. Something ravels up within, and awakens.

The soul starts back at a lick of light; a flicker of firebolt striking at the very utmost horizon. A penetration of colour infests the indistinct landscape; firming it up, giving it depth and purpose; awakening awareness of sight and the possibilities of touch, scent and hearing.

The soul – surprised by an instinctive memory – identifies the river-meadows of Dirke on the plain below Thebes; full of spring growth and moving water. Sound is provided now by a distant chorus of frogs – _Vrekekekex …._

In the distance, a low chanting makes itself heard. Without any increase in volume, it spreads stealthily, suffusing the landscape, incorporating, as it approaches, the batrachian song. It reaches the soul, stealing through its incorporeal ears, so that its whole being throbs with sound and meaning –

++… the gods had sown (or sewn) themselves  
thus -  
here and there,  
deep into Kadmos’ bloodline.  
Poseidon’s his grandfather, so it is said; and  
Far back, beyond memory,  
Io the Foremother had,  
(enforced in form of heifer)  
borne a son to Zeus Himself.

And later, Kadmos’ own sister Europa  
was ravished away  
far over water  
by a great white bull  
(also thought to be  
He who wields the lightning,  
The Thunderer,  
Maimaktês!  
Khrysaoreus!  
That Same Father Zeus).

Then Kadmos reived Harmonia  
from Samothrace to be his bride;  
taking a daughter of Zeus  
in reparation for his sister.  
(he always  
ran it a bit close with the gods,  
did Kadmos!)

Why, then, should anyone be surprised  
when stories began to circulate  
about  
Semele?  
Kadmos’ daughter –  
And Zeus….

It might have been revenge on Zeus’s part  
for Harmonia;  
but again,  
maybe just force of habit

or

the plain compulsion  
of Bull to Heifer  
that hung about that line.

They say that Dionysos so appeared  
To Kadmos’ grandson, Pentheus  
when he was running mad  
in a woman’s dress ….++

**

The soul has become caught up and entangled within this sweep of narrative. 

It has found itself flung, cramped, into the heifer; driven mad by the gadfly sent by Hera to torment it for the crime of being desired by the king of the gods. 

And it has clung, terrified, to the massive horned head, as the ravaging beast cleaves the waters of Middle-Sea, bearing the soul away from family and the life it has known, to an unimagined future in a strange land.

A brief dizzying whirl of colour encompasses Grandmother Harmonia’s abduction; a searing jet of flame the immolation of Aunt Semele.

And then – to the wail of the flute and thwack of the kettledrum, the maenads appear; and the soul is hurled, by an instant flash of memory-lightning, into its own story. Its own drama. Its own tragedy…. when its name had been Pentheus of Thebes …..

****

The first intimation of Dionysos is wafted to Pentheus from afar. He’s been on a round of state visits (the new young ruler of Thebes, making himself known to neighbours, allies and dependents); and was in Plataea when the rumours reached him.

Later Theban messengers from his new fast-courier service meet him at the border to bring him up to speed on the shameful tale of the city’s womenfolk running mad on the mountain.

Naturally, he sweeps home in the fastest chariot available, intent on the re-imposition of the cosmic order. It goes against nature, he considers, to have women busying themselves with anything other than childrearing, their hearth-gods and their domestic duties. Allowed to roam free, they will inevitably default to debauchery; as they are doubtless doing even now, on the mountain slopes.

The word _daimon_ crops up with dismaying regularity, amid mentions of a stray mystic from somewhere un-  
Hellenic, who is proclaiming this Dionysos to be a god – son of Zeus.

Pentheus knows for a fact that this is a pack of lies. The unborn child (now alleged to be the would-be deity) was incinerated in the womb, by the fire that Zeus sent to destroy blasphemous Aunt Semele, the mother.

He’s going to curtail this long-haired stranger, and spoil his well-publicised good looks. He wants no pretty foreign boys mingling with Thebes’ girls – aiming on the exchange of fluids, no doubt; and the subsequent foisting of misbegotten spawn onto respectable households!

He deals summarily with Thebes’ own homegrown charlatan, Teiresias; but he can hardly stop his respected grandfather from dancing off up the mountain, festooned in poisonous weeds. At least he’s stopped the old man contaminating his own brow with them!

He puts a few rockets under the police; and they manage to round up any stray maenads within the city gates; but he wisely entrusts the capture of the young priest to his own elite guard – who duly deliver the bound agitator in double-quick time.

Pentheus observes, whilst the guard is making his report (and being outrageously sympathetic to the prisoner), that the priests stands quietly, offering no resistance. The ruler is rather disappointed at the lack of spirit. He would have liked to see some blue bruises adorning that delicate white skin; a touch, maybe, of blood on those sadly un-split lips; the pleasing asymmetry bestowed by the addition of one black eye. However, the youth is clearly a milksop without the courage to fight back.

Having noted the stranger’s disappointing pristine-ness; Pentheus indulges in a more detailed examination of his prisoner.

The first impression – hardly surprising – is that he looks just like a girl. Strangely, the soft, small beard and neat moustache just point up the latent femininity; more so, in fact, than his waves of long shining hair, and the floor-length fawnskin robe he wears.

 _He’s in my net, he won’t escape_ : thinks Pentheus; and experiences a surge of satisfaction.

“You’re quite pretty, I’ll give you that,” he says loftily to his prisoner, “Quite the woman-bait, I’ll bet! You’re no warrior, I can see that – except perhaps, in the bedroom,” inexplicably, he then adds – “I wonder whose touch it is YOU crave during the long shrouded siesta-times?”

Pentheus bites his tongue almost immediately. What on earth has made him say that? It’s almost as if the stranger’s slightly quizzical gaze is daring him to blurt out stuff, unthinking. With only the tiniest of pauses, he rights himself.

“But first things first! Who are you, exactly? Where do you hale from?”

The hills of Tmolos: replies the mystic: Lydia.

Pentheus has heard of these places; is pleased that he can identify them. He feels almost cordial as he tells the stranger this. 

But soon the man is expounding his crazy beliefs about Dionysos - his personal experience of the daimon - and Pentheus’ incipient sympathy retreats smartly. The young smartarse has an answer to everything too. Pentheus continues his interrogation but, progressively hot and bothered, he feels several times that he is losing the plot. 

He attempts a couple of threats, but finds himself being gently mocked; admonished like a wayward child; accused of wilful blindness even of his own Self. There is nothing left for him to do but order the stranger into the palace, under guard.

**

Pentheus’ second interview with the young priest begins badly. Pentheus is painfully off-balance after the earthquake and fire that have combined to destroy one whole wing of the palace. In addition, he could have sworn that he’d thoroughly bound, and subsequently run his prisoner through with his sword.

And yet, here he is, once more surrounded by swooning Bakkhai; even more ready of tongue; even more unassailable and sure-footed with his arguments. A word-warrior for certain.

Next, just as Pentheus is attempting to discover exactly how the stranger effected his escape, someone comes rushing in to interrupt. The stranger, with unbearable grace, offers to wait whilst Pentheus hears what the herdsman from the slopes of Kithairon has to say. 

It’s bad news, of course. The maenads, led by Pentheus’ own mother and aunts, are wreaking havoc up there. The herdsman initially paints a picture resembling a pastoral idyll, when the woman wake and think themselves alone; but Pentheus doesn’t believe that for a moment. Witness their shocking behaviour once the herdspeople (quite properly) sought to lay hands on them and lead them back to Thebes and their womanly duties! Clearly they have been bewitched by wine and sex.

Pentheus can almost hear the stranger’s musical, mocking laughter in his head. It drives him to a fury that must only be assuaged by action. He calls for a lockdown in the city, and the mobilisation of all arms-bearing citizens. 

In vain the stranger points out the unwisdom of taking up arms against a god (that imposter!) and offers to go to the mountain himself, to bring the women back down to the city in peace. Pentheus is having none of that. He wouldn’t trust that smarmy scoundrel as far as he could kick him.

He always has some back-answer too; a smart comeback to everything Pentheus says to him. It’s tiring; it’s dispiriting; and it reignites Pentheus’ earlier anger. Again, he resorts to violence.

He can’t even wait for his sword to be brought – though he’s called for it. Grabbing the young priest by the under-jaw to stop his incessant talk, he bears him to the ground; kneeling over him, crouched over his torso.

He’s staring direct into the stranger’s eyes. They’re an odd colour – maybe blue, maybe green. But there are also tawny-gold flecks in them, which are quite … mesmerising. 

For an instant, he’s frozen there, straddled over the stranger’s hips; and then he feels - quite distinctly - the gentle dig of an erect cock against his groin.

Galvanised by he knows not what, he rears back, rises and beats a hasty retreat. This has gone too far! There’s no going back …..

The stranger seems dazed, too. He remains on the ground, staring after Pentheus, his mutable eyes half-lidded; the slight tenting of his full robe quite visible and unashamed.

 _Aah!_ he breathes; a sound of completion and, perhaps, of empathy; enlightenment; insight!

If you don’t trust me: suggests the priest, getting up and straightening his robe: perhaps you’ll trust yourself! Wouldn’t you prefer it if you went to see the heart of the mystery yourself? Why don’t you climb Kithairon to see what the women do there?

The thought takes hold like fire - _Oh I’d give anything for that!_

The stranger gazes at him knowingly – as if he’d caught that hot thought, right on the wing.

“Of course,” explains Pentheus, recovering ground, “it won’t be pleasant seeing the women – my mother and aunts even – drunk, but … for Thebes …. “

The priest nods sagely. Of course: he says: Come, I’ll be your guide. But first, you must disguise yourself ..

.. as a woman.

Pentheus recoils; then demurs; then, on hearing that his safety depends on it, agrees. The young priest will act as his personal maid as well as supplying the necessary Bakkhic acoutrements – the fawnskin robe and the Thyrsos.

Pentheus walks into the palace, head held high and heart a-flutter.

**

Never has duty been more enjoyable. Pentheus has been hard-put to it, to remember that he is undertaking this disguise for the benefit of Thebes whilst together, he and the stranger pick out one of Agave’s abandoned formal suits (Chanel, in austere grey). Then there are all the extras; and finally the hairpiece which the stranger carefully arranges.

Once the transformation has been effected, the stranger leaves Pentheus in front of the mirror, promising to call him when it’s time to go.

Now Pentheus gazes at the tall, distinguished woman reflected back at him. Pentheus has chosen the hairpiece with care; the silver-grey identifies her as older, and thus her likeness to the daughters of Kadmos is striking. She could pass as a maenad amongst the women on Kithairon, no problem at all. She will grant Pentheus the anonymous freedom to … to … to gather the information necessary to save Thebes, of course!

Tentatively, Pentheus moves his head; the vision in the glass tosses hers proudly – just like those women outside. Pentheus tries again; and again. The mirror shows a nascent maenad. She’ll need a Thyrsus, of course, and a fawnskin; but really, this effervescent bubble of joy is surely genuinely Dionysian already!

Right on cue comes the Stranger’s call. Pentheus, his Self entirely subsumed by this bright new entity, strides forth to show the city its saviour.

**

Pentheus climbs slowly down to join the stranger and his maenads, acutely conscious of this new outer semblance that he wears. He places his feet, shod in elegant court-shoes with tiny heels, most carefully as he negotiates the rough steps down into the central square. 

They look at him in awe. 

No one – not even his mother - has ever looked at him in quite this way before. 

He is overbrimming with happiness; even the sky above is beaming. His vision enlarges, to encompass both the bright suns in the cloudless green, and the twice-seven gates of his beloved city.

With these new-minted eyes, he looks across at the priest, patiently waiting for him. 

Like the doubling of the sun, and of the city, he too is more than single. Like Pentheus himself, there is a second aspect to the stranger. The face of the young priest with his soft, downy face and long hair, is thinning to transparency like liquid honey. 

Behind this attenuated mask is something more bestial. There is the glitter of a darker eye; the skin blue-back and shining; and over the brow, the massive curve of ox horns. 

Pentheus watches in fascination, and laughing joy.

Excellent: says the stranger: you are seeing as you ought to see! Now you are fit for the mountain.

“Take me there!” begs Pentheus.

I will take you. But someone else with bring you down. You’ll be carried. In the arms of your mother.

“ _Now_ ,” says Pentheus, with insensate prescience, “ _you’re spoiling me_!”

I am indeed: concurs the stranger, with finality.

They turn through all the ways of the city (front and back) and out into the looming mountains.

**

The soul has an inkling of what is to come; but still cannot help being swept upwards, ever upwards – to the mountain, and then by some miracle to the top of tall pine tree – on this neverending river of ecstasy.

Now it can see all that is happening below; how the groups of women form and re-form in a constantly shifting pattern of life and beauty. They are like herds of lovely deer as they swirl and circle around this rooted centre, where he, Pentheus, watches.

If he had ever condemned drunkenness and debauchery, those thoughts are flung away; irrelevant and forgotten, in this tide of living green.

He experiences one eternal instant of the totality of it all; before the missiles start raining down; the earth cracks below; the tree falls, and his centre is unrooted, torn, and washed away in a tide of agony and unstringing.

**

The soul leaves the squashed and disintegrating mess, and enters someone else….. 

Now it is she who does the rending. The hunt is up; she and her keen hounds have their quarry down. It is a young lion who has dared to stalk them – They, the Bakkhai; the servants of Elutherios! The beast is learning the error of its ways!

The lion roars in her face, but she laughs back at it. What is its puny strength compared to her god-given prowess? She places one foot against its rib-cage, hauling at its front leg with a god-inspired urgency. See what we women can do when we act together under the deity! 

Soon, the impudent lion is scattered in pieces all over the mountain. Her sisters – all her lovely sisters – are playfully throwing the head to one another, in a circle.

When it comes to her, she pauses. She will take this trophy to her city. She will show her menfolk what a woman can do; what she is truly capable of….

****

The soul screams and screams. The agony is terrible. 

++What is this unseemly din? Awake, and know yourself!++

He is male, and disintegrating. She is female, and triumphant. It is one entity – being torn, and doing the tearing. 

The centre cannot hold like this, and the yowling, inchoate amalgam of anger, terror, pain and mad triumph begins to clot and separate until disparate bits of soul tear themselves apart, float free and finally reassemble into something like order…

Pentheus is aware; himself; one person again, and possessed of a dreadful sense of loss. It finds a rationale, and thus a voice.

“I can’t be both of us!” he croaks, and breaks into rending sobs.

“Why ever not?” says the familiar voice that has been chanting his lineage, teasing and antagonising him, showing and pronouncing his doom, “Here, then! Here, child, drink …. “

**

Pentheus finds now, that he has hands; and that he is using them to cradle the cupped hands of That Other, from which his lips have drunk the cool, revivifying, memory-reanimating water.

His eyes flick upwards to the face that looms over him; and recognises the soft features of the young priest of Dionysos, who later … later ..

“So you were a god, all the time!”

The lips bow within their soft nest of hair. The eyes flash, with a measure of triumph.

“You admit it at last!”

“It would be rather stupid to deny it now. _Am I right?_ ”

“Well,” admits Dionysos, “in truth, I’m working on it. In the meantime, as I believe I mentioned once, _daimon_ will do.”

Pentheus blinks, belatedly letting go the stranger’s hands and sitting back on his heels. These degrees of divinity confuse him. He prefers certainty. But his fatal curiosity takes hold, and he moves on to the next question.

“Why are we here? This is the Dirke.”

“My dear Pentheus, this (except for those damned interminable frogs, of course) is entirely your own doing - the environment you created for yourself. Clearly it has meaning for you. Look within for the answer to your own question. I seem to remember I once cautioned you for your lack of self-knowledge.”

“Ah!” realisation is dawning, “So this is Hades?”

“It is! I sent you here, if you recall.”

“Have you damned me, or saved me?”

“I really haven’t made up my mind. Why should I? I have all eternity. And so, I must remind you, do you. Only differently, of course.”

Pentheus pauses whilst this sinks in; eventually he frames a cautious statement.

“This … is a place of punishment then!”

“Indeed. I set it up for you myself. What did you expect?”

Pentheus chooses to answer this simply and directly.

“Oh, a place of fire; or maybe eternally receding food; or endless, pointless toil; or -” he shudders (hoping Dionysos hasn’t seen), “that vulture!”

“This is My personal punishment, for your personal endurance. Why would I be so unrefined? Do you remember me as crass?”

Pentheus gulps.

“My … my … end might be described that way!” he ventures. 

“Ah, but my dear, were they MY soft hands that rent you? Was MY tender flesh dabbled with your black gore? Of course not! I merely did the CLEVER part. My Bakkhai were most impressed by my stratagem.”

Rage and frustration overtake Pentheus; making him forget that this is Dionysos the God. Instead, he sees that blasted stranger; the one who always has a back-answer to everything. With hardly any sense of déjà vu at all, he seizes the young priest by the under-jaw, bearing him to the soft moss, kneeling over him, crouched over his torso.

“So,” says Dionysos coquettishly, “here we are again!”

The god’s erection is again jabbing at his thigh; and now – completely denuded of the concealing garments he wore on earth – there is no hiding his own answering tumescence.

“You wanted me,” states Dionysos inarguably, “You still do – even now, even here.”

Pentheus groans, overcome with a shame so deep it hurts. Dionysos, still beneath him, reaches up to draw his head down so close that Pentheus can feel the god’s breath, warm and then cool, against his cheek.

 _”But a pain mixed with pleasure perhaps_? Believe me, Pentheus, this is not a place of shame, but of punishment. And this particular punishment will be the one you enjoy.”

“Then why is it a punishment?” asks Pentheus reasonably.

Dionysos shifts infinitesimally below him, and Pentheus is suddenly aware that their erections are in exact line; and that the full-length fawnskin robe has disappeared into thin air.

“You really want to debate that right now?” asks the god innocently.

“I don’t know what I want! I’m dead; I’m in Hades; and now you … I .. "

“Hush, now. You’re losing your … eagerness. Surely you’ve done this before?”

“Only with women. And they didn’t talk back!”

“Ah. Well, then, let’s try this. What do you think of when you’re Pentheus, ruler of Thebes, swiving some insignificant female?”

“It wasn’t like that!” Pentheus is moved to protest.

“Wasn’t it?” the god arches one eyebrow quizzically, “Then how about this - what do you think of – when you’re wearing that classy number you ‘borrowed’ off your mother? Don’t try to talk – just think it!”

**

++She lies flat on her back, the points of her prim shoes pointing skywards and her tight skirt rucked up around her waist. The constrictions to her torso are manifold. Next to her skin, the snug corset’s embrace gives comfort; although the stocking-suspenders dig into her stretched thighs. The fitted jacket, pulled awry, limits movement of arms and shoulders; and the crushing weight of his body restricts her breathing to a series of short, audible gasps.

He (faceless but potent) is like a great bull as he drills into her; and she – the heifer – can only lie still and accept his seed. That - and the incipient ecstasy …..++

**

“So,” says Dionysos, “Like that, hmm? And now the other?”

“Wha .. ?” gulps Pentheus, his erection now painfully jabbing against the god’s thigh.

“The other – what thoughts tore through you when you had me pinned to the ground in the public square outside your palace? No – don’t tell me! Think it!”

**

++The rage is pooling like lava in his lower belly. The young priest seems stunned beneath him; soft-eyed and acquiescent. With a roar like a young lion, Pentheus realises that this bout, he can win!

He is himself again – Pentheus, descendent of Poseidon, son of the Dragon’s tooth, ruler of Thebes; whose slightest word is law. A growled command sets the stranger rolling over onto his belly, then clambering up on all-fours, the long robe flipped over his back and head.

The roiling crimson mania inside is transmuting, goldenly, into urgent desire. Hardened to aching point, Pentheus fumbles desperately with his clothing until he’s free of the relevant bits of it. 

He wastes valuable seconds spitting into his fist to coat himself. His subsequent entry is hasty and inattentive; and the stranger hisses through his teeth as Pentheus drives in, balls-deep.

He hardly takes a breath, but begins pounding immediately. It’s exhilarating; quite different from fucking a woman. Pentheus could get used to this – oh yes! There’s something so … satisfying …. unique ….. about this coupling. He could go on forever…..

He thrusts once more; all-powerful, driving mindlessly to completion. 

At the apex things begin, imperceptibly, to change. The body beneath him goes rigid. The priest is coming to climax. Pentheus snatches a breath on a laugh; preparing to let go. 

And freezes.

The priest’s body is changing. The skin darkens; the shoulders that Pentheus grasps are wider, more muscled; and the head half-turns so that one dark eye – half basalt, half obsidian – fixes Pentheus balefully. The deity is revealed in His majesty; horned and omnipotent.

Pentheus, caught mounted on the back of the transformed god, is borne away across a shadowy ocean to some unknown, unsolicited fate ….. ++

**

“You didn’t think I’d let you get away with that uncaring bit of power-play, did you?”

“Yes!” says Pentheus, indignant and unsatisfied, “You asked me to think about it!”

“I never said I wouldn’t judge you, nor change the end of the story.”

“You altered it back to Europa!”

“These are all patterns peculiar to the line of Io. I merely followed the trend,” the god explains airily.

“No! You’ve had a hand in weaving that pattern, you and Father Zeus.”

“You should be pleased. It’s a mark of divine favour to your house,” states Dionysos ineffably.

Pentheus is very tempted to make a rude noise; but, since the far-off days of his childhood when such behaviour might have been tolerated, he has learned the value of dignity.

Besides – Dionysos is in all probability well aware of any cerebrally blown raspberries.

“Don’t be like that,” says Dionysos, right on cue, “I know it didn’t work out very well for you personally, but _Your celebrity will reach the high heaven_!”

“Thank you,” says Pentheus drearily.

“Look – I know you aren’t … satisfied yet,” the god, still lying beneath Pentheus, slides a hand between their bodies and ascertains Pentheus’ detumescent state, “But we can rectify that, you and I.”

Pentheus, still astraddle, kneels up carefully, and scrutinises the supine deity. Dionysos stares back, radiating a sincerity which Pentheus dare not trust. 

“What had you in mind?”

“ _Amazing strange experiences await you_ , Pentheus. I shall sow my seed in you; and you will be transcendent when I do. Cede all power to me and the joys of ecstasy shall be yours. Believe it!”

The sheer incongruousness of this offer is astounding. Dionysos is lying quietly beneath him, still wearing the persona of the young priest; delicate, softly-spoken and long-haired. Nonetheless, it throws Pentheus into an agony of indecision, spiced with a dreadful apprehension; a barely-acknowledged terror.

“Ah,” the god is onto that straight away, “Having a bit of trouble with the _absolute submission_ bit, are we? Well – just this once, I’ll compromise. You stay where you are – on top. That means you direct the action – dictate the pace and suchlike.”

“But you’ll still …. ?”

“Indeed – that bit’s non-negotiable for the amazing experience. So .. “

“Alright … I suppose.”

“You won’t regret THIS, Pentheus,” affirms Dionysos, “So, now, why don’t we get you back to the peak of perfection?”

The god catches Pentheus’ eye, and holds his gaze with those soft, unyielding blue eyes of his. His touch on Pentheus’ fading erection is sure; but gentle as the gossamer that mildly embraces an errant butterfly. Gradually, Pentheus finds himself responding.

“Very good,” purrs Dionysos, “Now you’re ready, we’ll proceed!”

“What,” asks Pentheus apprehensively, “should I do?”

“Nothing – yet!” 

The god’s voice has strengthened. Pentheus, his eyes still locked on Dionysos’, sees the god’s pupils dilate until each eye is altogether black; and the upper part of his face is dimmed by the shadow of ox-horns. He blinks, and the vision is gone.

The long-haired, soft-eyed priest-persona smiles beatifically.

“Don’t move a muscle!” he says and, placing his hands on each of Pentheus’ hips, lifts him bodily, so that he is kneeling on thin air several inches above Dionysos’ body.

++Don’t try to struggle. Relax, and let me …. ++

Pentheus does his best to comply; and it seems as if the will is taken for the deed. A feeling of complete safety steals over him, which remains even when his legs, apparently of their own volition, rearrange and cross themselves so that he is sitting, each buttock comfortably cushioned on Dionysos’ cupped palms. Vaguely, he recalls how the god had effortlessly bent the pine tree on Mount Kithairon, and then paid it out smoothly so that Pentheus, perched atop, was raised gently heavenwards – for so short a time.

He should be more aware now, he knows; but Dionysos is sitting up, slowly and so steadily that Pentheus is hardly discomposed. Then the god leans forward between Pentheus’ bent knees, and takes him - all the length of him - into his mouth, swallowing slightly so that Pentheus comes, instantaneously and explosively, down his throat. 

++Excellent! Now you’re part of me; and I shall be part of you, by-and-by.++

Shaking with the aftershock, Pentheus finds that he is being re-deposited, kneeling, over the god’s torso; but now he is carefully placed so that he can feel the incipient intrusion of Dionysos’ still engorged cock.

There’s no going back now; and in any case, the remnant of that climactic lightning-bolt is lingering in Pentheus’ groin. He knows he should be taking the lead here; but in fact he has no idea how to let Dionysos inside him. He sneaks a look at the god, who is once again supine beneath him, shut-eyed and motionless even as that sly cock is nudging at his arse.

The god’s lips part and, without opening his eyes, he stumbles dreamily into speech.

“When we next meet I shall brush your hair. Whether or not you’ve found that outfit you love so much, we’ll be doing away with the hairpiece. I shall brush and brush – it will be quite soothing – until your hair grows long. Longer than mine; longer even than your mother’s when she loosened it to run wild on the mountain. Long enough to pull tight across your throat; or mine. I shall pamper you, Pentheus. Next time. Now, shall we …. ?“

The effect of this sensuously-delivered speech on Pentheus, is instantaneous. He forgets that the last time he was pampered by this priest, he was in fact being prepared for sacrifice. The quiescent satisfaction in his groin is flaring once again; encompassing now his twitching cock, tightened scrotum, sensitised perineum and tingling coccyx. Everything in his lower belly is again hot and active as Dionysos, all the while murmuring gentle instruction, coaxes him to hunker down so that the god’s cock presses hard and deep into his arse.

There’s a moment when Pentheus jerks and twists without success (not believing that it will ever happen) but then Dionysos leans forward again and grasps Pentheus by both hips, moving and swaying him in the oldest dance in any of the worlds. 

The god moves beneath and inside him, minimally as he becomes accustomed to the intrusion, then more insistently though with limited scope. Pentheus picks up the rhythm, taking control of the pace as he rises and falls; impaling himself over and over on the god until he burns inside, and even that melds into the mounting excitation. 

Is he taking or being taken? It’s no matter so long as the exquisite tension continues forever and ever, and never ends ……

But even in the timeless Underworld there are seamless conclusions and beginnings. It takes him in surprise at the end; almost agonised, long-drawn after that first hasty climax. The god shudders beneath him and just for a moment, they cling fiercely at one another’s shoulders as the convulsions ease from vigorous, to moderate, to faint. 

**

“Ahh,” sighs Dionysos lazily, “I just love it when I’m being human. The ecstasies are so much more intense for being short-lived! And there are so many opportunities to have them.”

“Really? I can only think of a few. What we’ve just been doing, of course. And that lift you get when you’re acclaimed by the crowd.”

“You really didn’t appreciate what you had, Pentheus! The human body is strung and tuned for ecstasy in various and diverse situations. From the sweet conviction of invulnerability that comes to the helplessly inebriated, to the total bliss that accompanies a really complete and disburdening shit, there’s nothing like it!” 

“I didn’t think gods would do anything as undignified as shitting!” 

“Last time (or will that be next time?) I visited Hades, I shat all over the place. I was (or will be) in a very different mode on that occasion – comedic rather than tragic. I believe I mentioned that I’m working on the god thing? I just do Human to keep the shapeshifting up to scratch. I get that feeling of change when I leave here, after a visit. It’s like a small rebirth each time – a choice of some other persona. What do you want to be, Pentheus? Next time around?”

Pentheus blinks.

“There’s a next time for me too?”

“A certain religious group will contend (or have contended) that the soul, being immortal, is capable of many rebirths. They practise strict disciplines in order to be reborn in better circumstances than each past life. One thing they are urged to do when they arrive here – they must drink the waters of Mnemosyne, not Lethe. Thus they will remember all their past lives. You have supped those very waters. So what do you say? What would you want, Pentheus?”

“I’d like go on wearing women’s clothes, I suppose; and be accepted in spite of it – or even for it. So really, I’d like to be me, whole, male AND female; neither and both; balanced and unhidden. So THAT was the sort of order I was striving for! But I doubt it will ever happen in any world that I know!”

“Don’t be too sure! Here – see …. “

Obediently Pentheus looks.

The human form inhabited by the god draws itself away, and up. There it stands - on thin air – the tantalising form of the young priest who had first tempted and then had him torn in Thebes. 

Then it wavers, and modifies. The long fawn-pelt robe shrinks itself skinny, clinging to, and outlining the lithe body like a second skin; shining in a myriad splendour of small scintillants, the hem flaring like the tail of a fish. 

The body itself shifts subtly; showing a softer, curvy silhouette with a hint of rotundity at breast and thigh. The hair bursts from its restraints, falling now like a darkening waterfall, straight and lustrous. And the soft little beard becomes heavier but neater; black and definite.

She raises her magnificent eyes to where the sky might be, lifts her arms and sings - in an unknown language, but gloriously.

++This! It is this++ (she conveys to him) ++that you may in some distant age aspire to be. And now – fare-you-well-a-day! I leave you preserved in the aspic of amnesia once more – to await the continuation of your punishment++

Pentheus makes an inarticulate sound of mingled disbelief, grief, protest and renewed betrayal; then finds his voice.

“But you told me the Waters of Mnemosyne – which I drank from your very hands – restore memory!”

”Alas for you, Pentheus!” sings the smoky voice archly, “You drank your SECOND draught from my hands. Mnemosyne was administered first, before the mutual waltz through our lineage. Now it’s Lethe again, I’m afraid. I’ve been holding the effects back by my presence, but now I must go. And so – until your NEXT renascence ….. “

Pentheus howls. 

Away on the river-brim, the frogs’ chorus falters. The whole landscape oscillates, shivers and rights itself (cautiously), as the echoes die away.

“It’s just the same as Thebes,” protests Pentheus, broken anew, “You never play fair!” 

“Don’t know the meaning of the word,” replies the vision blandly, “Doesn’t come within my remit. Still, I grant you a compensatory boon - you can contemplate this form I’ve taken, right up to when your senses leave you. So. Until next – shall we say – Time?”

The gorgeous creature rises like a phoenix, higher and higher, describing a glittering arc overhead, before diminishing like a shooting star across the landscape, which is already fading even as the god abandons it.

****

The evolving god, now back in his divine avatar – blue-black-skinned and triumphantly horn-crowned - stands before the ivory gates of the Underworld. Sure now, of his welcome here -at least from Her (should he choose to return) - he can come and go as he pleases.

++You think that, do you, Bringer of Ecstasy? So you intend to return. The punishment is not yet complete?++

“It’s not … punishment exactly any more, Omnipresent Lady,” explains the god, hastily and unguardedly, “It’s… “

++… more like a tidy child putting its toys away? You expect it to stay safe here – in Our Realm.++

“No! Well … there may be elements of ‘Yes’ in what You suggest,” concedes Dionysos, apparently reluctantly, “He’s safe here; recollection-free, inert, deathly!”

Within his head, his ears, The Lady sighs.

++Yes. It is Yes, indeed. Yes, We will keep him safe – as We keep all souls here. Safe, yes. Beyond that – his condition is in your charge.++

“Yes, yes. Understood!” the god is suddenly impatient to be away from this ordered eternity and its responsibilities, “Well, must be off! Places to go, people to see. Until my next visit, Inexpressible Lady!”

Executing a hasty bow, Dionysos makes for the Ivory Gates. Before he can plunge through, however, he feels Her mocking parting shot echoing through him –

++Ecstasy to bring! Tricks to turn! But WHERE will you go? And WHO will you see?++

He stops short, right in the mouth of Hades.

What **will** he do?

He might, he thinks, go and get himself captured by pirates; and extricate himself by covering their ship in living green – the mainmast sprouting branch, bud, flower and bursting grapes. The fleeing pirates will dive into the waters – and somehow, inexplicably, transmute into dolphins as they do so. (Is that a punishment, or a return to freedom?)

Or he might run mad with two asses, and afterwards raise them to the stars. (Is that THEIR freedom?)

Or transform three unbelieving princesses into bats. (Surely THAT doesn’t constitute freedom? Does it?)

Or he might – he just might – turn straight around and go back to the Fields of Punishment, to Mnemosyne, and the correction of Pentheus. It would be fun to start over, right from scratch, with the soul once again free of its name, its past . …..

But no! First he will go back - or forward - to the very core of his own being; to where it all began (or will begin) … when, as Zagreus, he had been (or would be) constrained to that same dismembering death to which he had doomed Pentheus. He has to find out if he can endure it now, as Pentheus did!

That way, their next meeting will be more ... informed. And MUCH more interesting. 

****

The afterglow of the departing god fades slowly, still illuminating the dusky meads and sluggish river long after its source has vanished.

The soul follows its protracted death with listless eyes. It is aware of discomfort within itself – a monumental, but fragmented disappointment; a dull sense of betrayal by it knows not what. It jerks like a puppet - unstrung, but with its parts loosely thrown back together. 

Sounds here are muffled. If there is a river, its voice is diluted to the point of vanishment. No breath of wind stirs the phantom grasses or the transparent blossoms.

Until, at that far point where darkness is enacting the dying of the light, a small monotonous sound (the constant drip of water on a tortured head? A human heartbeat faltering down to death?) becomes audible.

_Vrekekekex …_

The soul hauls itself from its morass of disjointed misery and – aware now that it has ears – listens.

_Vrekekekex …_

The frog chorus swells; countless voices contributing. (They have always harboured scant respect for Dionysos; enjoying as they do, the favour of the Muses and of Apollo Himself).

_Vrekekekex koax koax,  
vrekekekex koax koax!_

Why: thinks the soul, surprised: This is the river-valley of the Dirke!

Its memory is incomplete; torn. There is a Name it must remember; and clothing it must wear - something austere, in grey... and a song about rising like a Phoenix…

The rosy-fingered dawn is stealing westwards, presaging the two suns’ rising. The soul watches; and knows at least this: that its lover and God – when He returns – will wear the horns of a dark minotaur.


End file.
